Chasing the Wind
by lamentomori
Summary: Colt has been chasing the wind his whole life but now that he's caught it, it seems as though it's gone, fading away, bound by him and his insecurities. Rating for themes. Warnings: 2nd person Colt PoV, AU, slash (Colt/Punk), mild and infrequent profanity, angst, eating disorders (anorexia), implied homophobia and alcohol dependence.


Warnings: 2nd person Colt PoV, AU (heavily AU, no wrestling, the S.E.S is a real cult, Colt works in marketing.) slash (Colt/Punk), mild and infrequent profanity, angst, eating disorders (anorexia), implied homophobia and alcohol dependence.

* * *

The first time you saw him was in a hallway. A skinny scruff looking kid, big glasses, big ears, long hair, nothing special, nothing interesting but what stuck with you was the way he moved, fluid like water, slipping through your fellow students like a fish through a reef. It was several weeks before he came to your attention again, the target of one of your teammates, a beating for some reason you're not important enough to be told, his grace was still there in defeat, arrogance dripped from him even as his blood did. You didn't step in to stop it, no one ever does, your teammates aren't the sort of people who are interrupted. The hierarchy of High School is set very much in stone and he was very much at the bottom of the heap. It takes three more witnessed beatings before you step closer, intent on stopping it and he glares at you, you're too far to see the colour of the eyes that glare at you but the contempt in them is astounding, you let yourself be swallowed up by the gathering crowd and drift away. You've never been faced with a look like that before; never felt like someone had just seen your soul and deemed it worthless. You avoid crowds where you suspect that there is a beating to witness, you're not certain you could take another one of those glares. You still don't know anything about him other than he gets the shit kicked out of him regularly and can make you feel three inches tall with a single look.

It's chance, fate maybe, which brings him into your life again. You're failing English spectacularly, the Coach is overly concerned, you're a solid addition to his line-up so you're given a tutor, told to meet a Philip Brooks in the library. You try to sweet talk the librarian into telling you where this mysterious Philip Brooks could be found.

"That's me." You turn and stare at him, the long hair and glasses gone, instead there's a shock of bright red spikes and sharp green eyes. "What'd you want?"

"I, uh, I'm Scott, Scott Colton. You're uh."

"C'mon." You follow him away from the librarian to a table at the back of the room. "How badly you failing?"

"Uh, _bad_." You mutter, unwilling to meet his gaze, you can feel the weight of it on you and you find yourself wishing it was _anyone_ other than him, they'd sent to tutor you.

"Grade?"

"Scraping a D, if I'm lucky." You chance a look at him but he's staring out the window, nonchalant and disinterested. "So how do I get it better?" He looks at you, eyebrow raised.

"Give me a fifty and I'll have you getting A's by the end of the semester."

"You're sure you can help me that quickly." You're surprised; firstly, because this is supposed to be free and secondly you've no talent for words, A's are well beyond you.

"Fifty and your old papers, so I can get your handwriting and style down. Bring them here tomorrow." He starts walking away; you grab his wrist, which he shakes free quickly. "Don't touch me; just bring me your money and your shit." He leaves and you stare after him, his wrist was so thin, you're sure you could wrap your hand around it twice.

Your interactions with him are limited from then on; he takes your money and gives you a new paper, complete with notes on content in case you're asked questions about it. Your grades get better, the Coach is happy but you're not. You want to talk to him, you've decided against him being a fish, he's the wind, elusive, impossible to catch. All you want to do is talk to him, to get to know him, the person who owns the beautiful face you're obsessed with. Each time you exchange money for a paper, you're caught by the way his eyes stare you down, the set of his lips, even his ears, as big as they are, are somehow perfect. You try everything from small talk to _big_ talk, asking him every question you can conceive of but all it earns you is his contemptuous glare. So you try gestures, random candies, sodas, intervening in his beatings, which earned you one of your own from your teammates and an awkward explanation of why you'd stopped them, not the truth of course but that _he_ was the reason you were still on the team. After that, he became almost protected and he didn't seem in the least bit grateful for it.

After High School, you go on to University, you don't see him for a long time but he lurks in the back of your mind, darting in and out of your consciousness like a leaf on the wind, dancing out of reach, impossible to catch. You get a job in marketing, your family are proud of you but you're bored. You'd had strange dreams as a child, curious ideas of making your living as something more glamorous, something with bright lights, something with Philip Brooks at your side. Honestly, it's the one thing every teenage fantasy had, his sleek, slender form beside you. The idea of him never really leaves your mind; you date people that are a pale reflection of him, a woman with eyes almost his shade of green, a man with spiked dyed hair, any feature that echoes back to the boy you probably fell in love or at very least lust with in High School.

When you finally meet him again, it comes as a surprise, you wake up in an unknown place with a feeling of panic. A large room full of other people who had most likely just woken up from a night of heavy drinking. You know you shouldn't drink so much but your life is stressful and you want to escape from it sometimes. There are people dressed in black picking their way through the sobering crowd, dispensing buckets and glasses of water. A girl with a shaved head appears in front of you holding a glass and you ask her where the bathroom is, she points you in the direction of a door and you stumble by the other beds towards it. Through the door is a corridor, other doors marked dorm one through three and Men and Women. Once you finish up in the bathroom, you consider your options, you have no idea where you are and no idea how to get home, your wallet is in your pocket at least. You start to explore this strange building, find leaflets branded S.E.S and are less confused, you've heard of these people, some kind of weird cult that takes in the drunk, gives them a place to sleep, then sends them on their way. The _Straight Edge Society_, it's a lovely idea but you can't help but to wonder what sort of whack-job would run this thing.

"Sure, there's room in three, put him there." You recognise that voice, it's a little deeper, a little older but you know it's him. His back is turned to you, tall, thin, long black hair, black clothes; he's part of this odd little cult?

"Thanks, Punk." There are two Police Officers talking with him, carrying a huge, unconsciously drunk man between them. He turns and you see his face, heavy beard hiding the majority of his features but those eyes bear the same contemptuous glimmer to them. Your childhood crush hasn't abated any it would seem, despite of the beard, the hair, the general unkempt look, he still moves like the wind.

"Phillip!" You call out to him and he comes closer to you.

"Do I know you?" He doesn't remember you, it should come as no surprise but it does.

"It's Scott, Scott Colton?" He shakes his head. "We were in High School together." He laughs suddenly, a sharp unamused bark of noise.

"I'm sure we moved in very different circles, Mr Colton." You can't argue with him there, you really did, you still do, you feel out of place in this little sanctuary in your rumpled suit and skewed tie.

"You were my tutor." You want him to remember you, you want there to be an excuse to keep those eyes on you longer.

"Tutor?" He sounds thoughtful and leans against the wall. "I was a lot of people's _tutor_. I'm sure I scammed you out of a lot of money. You come to collect?" His eyes soften and he has a wry little smile on his face, the tilt of his lips letting the light catch the little ring in the bottom one.

"Did that hurt?" You feel impossibly stupid as he stares at you, the contempt of his youth glimmering through once more. "The ring and no, you helped me, good value too, I'd say." You try to smile but you feel a headache forming behind your eyes.

"No." He says shortly and pushes off the wall. He turns from and you suppose you're being dismissed; only you don't want to be.

"So you're a member of this S.E.S. thing?" It's the first thing that occurs to you to ask as you follow him up the stairs and along a corridor, more rooms marked _Dormitory_ only these are marked _men's _ and _women's_, you suppose this is where the members sleep.

"No." You feel a lot like you did when you were younger, questioning this impossibly beautiful thing and getting nowhere, like offering food to a stray cat that hates you for no reason you can work out, for no reason other than you're a human.

"You look like one of them." He does, the same plain black clothes, though the people moving through the beds had shaved heads, his hair, his beard, they're both long.

"I'm the founder." He mutters as he opens a door at the end of the corridor, steps through and shuts it behind him.

You know exactly why you proposed the idea to your boss; you know exactly why you made the suggestion to offer your services to them. Philip's, Punk's, you suppose, the papers all refer to him as Punk, Straight Edge Society has some surprising public support. They're viewed as a force for good, giving those people who would otherwise spend the night in jail, hospital or on the sidewalk, somewhere to sleep it off. It doesn't take much to persuade your boss that it would be a good idea to offer to help them promote themselves. Marketing is seen as one of those evil big businesses that don't do anything to help humanity, by aligning with a group who do nothing _but_ good, well it'll make the company look good, you tell him. He believes your lies and lies it is. You couldn't care less about the company or its image; you just want an excuse to talk to Philip, to feel his heavy gaze on you again. You only hope that he'll listen to you, that he'll accept your, the company's, offer.

The bald girl from when you woke up here answers the door and looks at you in confusion. You suppose you don't fit in here, what with your over-priced suit and shiny shoes, her entire outfit looks like it cost as much as your tie did.

"Good morning, I'd, uh, I'd like to, umm." You clear your throat. "Is Philip available?" She still looks confused, stares at you like you're crazy. "Punk?" You try and she nods.

"Yeah, come on in." She leads you through to the main room, bright with big windows looking out at the city, several sofas scattered around the large space, some people who look like they've seen better days sitting on them. One of them calls the woman over, Serena; you make a mental note of her name. She smiles apologetically at you and you lean against the wall, willing to wait whilst she goes to see what the man who shouted her over wants. He says something to her that makes her laugh and you feel even more out of place here.

"You seem far too sober to be here, Mr Colton." His voice is far too close; you jump and turn to stare at him. He's standing, a smirk on his lips, amusement at your expense glittering in his eyes. You find yourself at a loss for words and stare at him. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" He asks, leaning against the wall, that smirk still on his face.

"I, uh, I'm here on business." You manage to almost stammer out; you'd thought you would be able to hold it together better in front of him, after all last time you were here, you were relatively _cool_. It seems that had been the hangover talking and you've reverted back to your stupid stammering teenage self, all awkward words and no idea how to talk to him. It's never this difficult to talk to other people, other _attractive _people but he throws you, even now, even with a beard that Jesus would envy, he knocks you off kilter.

"Business?" He raises an eyebrow and pushes off the wall. "Well, come to my office, I guess." He leads you to a little room, a large window with a view of the bay, sunlight streaming through, a little desk covered in paper, an old looking laptop open with the keyboard half-buried under paper and the walls plastered with pictures, some of them incredibly good, some of them the crude drawings of a child. You stare at them, fascinated; each one has a little note, some sort of thank you. One, a stick figure family has _THANK YOU MR PUNK! FROM ABI AND MITCH AGED 3 & 5_, the little family shows what you suppose are Abi and Mitch with their parents. "Their father's an alcoholic, he beat their mother. Court ordered him to serve time and go to rehab so they sent him here. They're good kids, terrible artists but good kids. They come by sometimes, I show them that picture, strange how ten year old boys get so embarrassed by their terrible artwork."

"The father?" You ask staring at the picture, it's five years old, he does a wonderful thing here and you're planning taking advantage of his good work to take advantage of his body.

"When he joined he let go of everything that bound him to his vices. That's why members shave their heads, symbolically letting go of the ties that bind." He smiles softly, you're a terrible person and he has the most beautiful smile you've ever seen.

The first time you invite him to your home is surprisingly painless, you'd expected the invitation to be given awkwardly, you'd expected to stumble through it like your teenage self but you ask him if he'd like to come over and watch the game without stumbling over your words once. He accepted easily enough and you wondered why you'd been so worried in the first place. You offered to cook for him, he'd politely declined, told you he'd eat before he came over. You'd laughed and told him you were a good cook but he still declined. He arrives exactly when he said he would, he's always careful to be exactly on time, looks horribly impressed with your apartment, looks horribly out of place too, cheap and scruffy in a place that was designed to show off the wealth you've accumulated.

You sit side by side and watch the game, he sips at a mug of steaming hot water, claiming something to do with detoxing, you suppose it's a straight edge thing and you at beer from the can.

It comes as a glorious surprise when the Cubs win, an event that is depressingly rare. Without thought and with the courage gained from the beers you'd been sinking, you cup his face and kiss him. Your first kiss from him, he tastes like _nothing_ you've ever had before, all the over-priced food you've eaten, all of the vintage alcohol you've drunk, nothing tastes the way he does, clean, pure, addictive. He pulls away with a mild look of distaste, you start apologising profusely to him, sorrys and other platitudes tumbling out of your mouth like water from a faucet.

"I don't want to taste beer." He says softly, contempt and sorrow mixing in his eyes. You laugh softly.

"Wait here, Philip. I'll brush my teeth."

The partnership between your company and his _cult_ is working well; you've managed to promote his work in such a positive light, using success stories like Abi and Mitch's father as an indication of how successful people can be when they join the Straight Edge Society. He was mildly confused and amused by the positive media attention but seems to thrive in the spotlight, he's charismatic, when he talks, people listen.

"Do you want to come grab something to eat?" You've made it a habit to work from his cramped little office once a week for a while now. You enjoy watching him fight with technology and give up halfway through to write reports and accounts records on paper and then give them to someone else to type up, replying to emails is a process that involves more swearing than you've ever heard. He looks up at you and shrugs.

"I'm not too hungry. Wanna take a walk instead?" You nod; a walk would likely do you the power of good. It's summer, warm but he's still wearing a thick looking coat.

"You getting sick?" You ask him, you have to dampen down the urge to take his hand, you've been _dating_ for a little while now but you've not told anyone. He was very understanding when you asked for him to not mention it. He told you he understood. There's a part of you that wishes he'd fought you on this but he'd looked so terribly contemptuous of you when you'd asked. How he managed to combine acquiescence and contempt is beyond you. You walk around a park, coming to a deserted pathway lined with trees, in a fit of bravery; you catch his hand and hold it for as long as the path is covered from view by the trees. When you break back out into the open, you let it drop, you glance across at him but he's wearing a blank expression, staring fixedly ahead of him.

You come home with a box of pizza from some vegan place downtown, it's a long shot you know but he does like pizza and vegan is healthier, more ethical, _surely_ more straight edge. You set it down on the coffee table by the sofa. He's lying on your over-priced Italian leather sofa that your interior designer told you was _perfect_ for the room, looking horribly out of place in thrift store clothes, regarding the ceiling with a distant look in his eyes. You fetch two wine glasses from the kitchen; pour one full of Pepsi for him and one of the nice bottle of Beaujolais you picked up, for yourself. He looks mildly disapproving at your glass of wine but says nothing. You sip at it and meet his eyes easily, holding his gaze and trying to judge his mood. It's difficult though, he's hard to read. You open the box and make a vague gesture at it.

"This new vegan place opened, thought you'd like to try it." You hope against hope he'll eat something, you'd be happy if he drank the damn Pepsi, something with calories in it, the only things you've seen him put into his body lately are warm water and air.

"Look at you." He laughs softly. "Falling over yourself to save me." He laughs, a horrid puff of amusement. "I don't need to be saved."

"Phil, you're getting so thin, eat something." He raises one arm and smiles lazily at the bones of his wrist.

"I ate yesterday." You sigh and scrub your face, yesterday means nothing, he counts days by when he sleeps, and the bags under his eyes suggest that yesterday could be anything up to a week ago. He's been at the Society, you've been working, going out with clients, drinking, smoking and if you're honest, whoring but it's what's expected of you, you can't really say, _I'm sorry, sir, my boyfriend is a cult leader and he disapproves of this sort of thing_. You can imagine the look on your boss' face at the '_my boyfriend'_, equality and non-discrimination are only important in the employee handbook.

"Phil, I'm scared." You crouch down beside the sofa; he really is getting so thin, you're sure that under the baggy clothes you'd be able to count far too many ribs. He laughs again.

"Of me?" He wiggles his too thin, too pointy fingers in front of your face. "You think I'm gonna kill you in your sleep?"

"_For_ you, Phil." You say softly, catching those skinny, skinny fingers and bringing them close to your lips. "I'm scared for you." You resist the urge to kiss them; he doesn't need you adding to his problems with your desires. Despite how thin he is, how many ribs you could count, you desire him but last time you kissed him, the last time you wanted to be with him, he turned you away so harshly, you're too afraid to press him again. He does let you kiss his fingers though, even lets you stroke his hair, this will be enough, it will _have_ to be enough.

You're comfortably collapsed on the sofa in your apartment; the business dinner had gone well, the client was very happy with the campaign you'd designed for them. They filled you with expensive food, liquor and tobacco, you undoubtedly stink and you're very glad that Philip isn't here to look at you, very glad that you've not seen him since the night with the pizza about a fortnight ago. Your relationship isn't going well, he's _fading_, the longer he's with you the more he seems to be intent on destroying himself. You feel like you're stifling him somehow, that by having caught the wind you've been chasing for so long, you've lost it. It depresses you to think about it so you don't, you've thrown yourself into work and shunted him and whatever it is he's doing, to the back of your mind. You don't understand, he doesn't explain even if you ask, just sighs and tells you that you don't understand. You think that's rather like telling the ocean it's wet, it knows that and there's nothing it can do to change that fact. Your cell rings, you fumble to answer with a vague hello.

"_Scott, we're at the hospital, can you come down. We, I_." Serena sounds like she's crying; you hear sobs and a lot of hospital-esque sounds.

"_Scott_?" Luke's voice comes over the phone, he sounds worried, you get off the sofa, cursing the amount you've drunk as the room spins slightly. "_It's Punk, get here quickly_." You ask him which hospital and wonder if you should brave driving, you think that with the amount you've drank it's a wonder you managed to drive the damn car home in the first place. You hail a cab and tell the cabbie where you need to be.

"I'm here for Philip Brooks, name's Scott Colton." You tell the woman at reception, she nods slightly.

"Relationship with the patient?" She sounds bored, looks at you with mild distaste.

"He's my." You pause, what exactly is he to you? Lover, friend, neither of these are enough to get you any information. "I'm on his medical insurance, should be listed as next of kin."

"Ah, yes, partner. Okay, Mr Colton, if you'd like to take a seat, a doctor will be along to see you shortly." You nod numbly, _partner_, that's how he has you listed, you're not certain if you should be happy or not, if your family, your employers, _clients_ found out you were with him, you have no idea what they would think.

"Scott?" Serena launches herself at you and you wobble slightly, holding her as she sobs against your chest, you stroke her back awkwardly and feel terribly out of place, you're no good at offering comfort.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. Serena, what's happened, where's Phil?" She lets out another awful sob and Luke appears with two cups in his hands, you trade a sobbing Serena for a cup of scalding vending machine coffee and drink it down, hoping it'll sober you up enough to deal with this. "Luke, what's going on?" You attempt to fix your tie and hair; you know you probably look terrible.

"Punk." He says softly, stroking Serena's shaved head gently; her shoulders are shaking with quiet sobs.

"I've established that something has happened to Philip but _what_?" You sigh; sometimes dealing with Philip's little followers is so very frustrating.

"Scott Colton?" A woman in scrubs calls your name and you approach her, your tongue feels burnt from the coffee and your limbs uncoordinated and sluggish, she looks at you with sympathy. She begins walking further into the hospital. "He's weak but conscious. How long has he been anorexic?" She asks you and you stare at her.

"I, I don't know." You mutter.

"You don't know?" She sounds mildly disbelieving.

"We don't see each other very often, _work_." You feel like you're justifying yourself to this woman. "You're _sure_?" You ask her, _anorexia_, you're certain that was something for models and women.

"It explains the seizure, the elevated liver enzymes, his blood pressure and the fact that the skeleton in my office has more meat on its bones than he does." She looks like she's judging you; you're feeling rather sick of being judged.

"_Seizure_?" She nods and you gulp, a _seizure, _that sounds so serious, so very bad. "Can I see him?" She stops at a cubicle.

"In here." She pulls back the curtain; he's lying dressed in a hospital gown, his arms so thin you're sure you could wrap your hand around his bicep easily.

"You're here, explain to these people that I am straight edge, I don't want their drugs." He sounds annoyed and surly, raises the hand with a drip inserted into it and looks at you. "You're drunk." His tone changes, falls flat, his eyes filled with contempt, the doctor's judgement of you was bad, his contempt always makes you feel so small, so unworthy.

"Its saline, Mr Brooks, to rehydrate you. Now calm down or I'll have your proxy here sign off on giving you sedatives." The doctor sounds mildly exasperated and you sit heavily in the chair by the bed, staring at him. You've not seen him this undressed in so long, how have you managed to not notice how thin he is, there's next to nothing on him.

"Business dinner, I'm sobering up." You say softly as the doctor pulls the curtain closed. "What happened?" He sighs, doesn't answer you, just lies staring at the ceiling. You close your eyes and swallow heavily, a sick feeling has settled in your stomach. "Philip, what happened?" You try again, catching the hand closest to you, thankfully not the one with the drip in it.

"I collapsed." He says, he sounds so tired.

"Doctor said it was a seizure." You stroke his slightly protruding knuckles.

"I suppose it was then." You look at him but he's still staring at the ceiling. "Go home, sober up." You think you're being dismissed but you refuse to leave him, not here.

"I'm fine." You kiss his fingers softly, he tries to pull his hand free but you cling to it, resting your forehead against it, it feels wonderfully cool against your skin. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" He yanks his hand from you.

"I'm not sick." He snaps and you look at him, he's panting softly and scowling. "Go home, Scott, sleep this off." You ache to touch him, to stroke his thin cheek and tell him that you'll help him but you don't think he'd welcome it from you. You stand and leave the hospital, the sick feeling growing and building with each step you take further from him.

The next time you see him is awkward, you're drunk, suspended between two Police Officers that you've seen coming to the Society building on the days you work from Philip's office. When they picked you up, they'd joked that Punk would be so disappointed in you. You _know_ that, you're always disappointing him, always failing him. Luke takes you from them easily and leans you against a wall.

"Go get Punk." He says to some random member you don't recognise, there's a revolving door of members who stay in the building, only Luke and Serena seem to be permanently here, even Philip sometimes stays with you in your apartment, always looking horrifically out of place but so beautiful, making the expensive prints on your walls pale in comparison to him. It takes him no time to appear, looking pale and far too thin. He looks at you the same way he did when you first tried to stop your old football teammates from beating him. He jerks his chin at the stairs and Luke guides you up them, to Philip's room at the end of the top corridor, drops you on the bed and leaves you there. You lie staring up at the ceiling, trying to remember _anything_ about the night, a brief flash of your boss congratulating you on a successful campaign and a woman in not enough clothes, is all you can summon up.

"You look like hell." You'd been drifting between drunken sleep and drunken staring, when his voice cuts through the silence. He sits on the edge of the bed and sets a glass of water down on the table beside it.

"I'm sorry." You aren't sure what you're apologising for, being drunk, not being straight edge, not being able to help him. His hand was shaking so much when he set the glass down, he's always so shaky and frail these days and you've no idea how to help him. You've tried researching his _illness_, he has the symptoms, he is anorexic but you can't work out his motivations, he doesn't seem too concerned about his appearance. You gave up trying to use the Internet to diagnose him and asked him why. _You don't understand_ is his mantra towards you, you think. He shakes his head at your apology.

"Sleep it off." His voice is so very soft, you have to strain to hear him. He moves and gets off the bed; you reach out and catch his wrist, carefully not thinking about how thin it feels.

"Stay with me." He looks torn, contempt warring with acquiescence, you stroke his wrist with your thumb, his skin is so soft and thin, you can _feel_ his blood being pushed weakly through his veins. He sighs and lies on the bed beside you. You lace your fingers with his, bring your clasped hands to rest on your chest and fall asleep easily.

"I can't help you, Phil, if you won't tell me what's wrong." You plead with him the next time he's in your apartment, laying on the sofa staring at your ceiling.

"Nothing's wrong." He sounds listless.

"Then eat something, _please_." You squat down beside the sofa and try to catch his attention, eventually he turns to you.

"I'm _not_ hungry, Scott." You sigh and stand, you pull your jacket on and stuff your feet in your shoes. "Where are you going?" His voice is unexpected, you sigh and turn around to face him, he's sitting up on the sofa, looking shaky.

"Out, I need a smoke." You leave the apartment, close the door behind you and rest the back of your head against the door. Difficult, he's always so difficult.

It takes you a while to find the hospital. It surprised you when he agreed so easily to go, as though he had given up fighting you on this front. You're hopeful that this will help him; your work is suffering because of this situation. Your boss has been complaining about it, you citied personal issues, accidentally causing your co-workers to spread a rumour about you having a secret lover through the office. You worked harder to distract yourself from them. You weren't there when the people from the hospital picked him up; you were working, too busy to be there for him. The night before they collected him, you shared your bed for the first time in months, you lay with him on your chest, barely registering his weight on top of you, you could have wrapped your arms around him twice, you're certain of it. You'd wanted so very much more from him that night but were so very afraid of breaking him that you contented yourself with stroking his back, feeling every single one of his vertebrae, feeling slightly sick that if he said it was okay you would have happily made love to him.

"I'm here to visit Philip Brooks." The receptionist looks at you, a softly sad look in her eyes.

"Your name?" She's typing and looking at you, a skill you've never mastered, you need to watch the keys to know where to hit to get the right words to appear.

"Scott Colton, I'm his partner." You've reconciled the idea of letting these people know the depth of your relationship with him, they're already judging you for not looking after him, you may as well let them know just how badly you're failing him. You wait by the receptionist's desk and before long; a nurse comes to collect you. She smiles brightly.

"Good morning, nice day isn't it?" She's too cheerful, you nod at her cheeriness and avoid looking around, the air in this place smells odd, you don't want him here too long, you want these people to make him better quickly so you can get him out.

"How is he?" You interrupt her telling you about the flowers they grow in the garden and how they keep certain pests away from the vegetables they grow too. She pauses and sighs softly, her cheerful exterior cracking.

"Your Philip is a stubborn man." She sighs again. "It's a shame he's gay." You wince, you've never considered yourself _gay_, just in love with Philip but she doesn't notice your mild discomfort and just keeps talking. "And so stubborn. He's rather pretty though." She laughs and stops in front of a door. "Be careful with him, he's a little _delicate_." You want to laugh at her but you nod.

"I know." You say softly, if delicate is a byword for difficult at least. She turns to you and smiles.

"We're doing everything we can but it's all on him, he's going to need you to be strong for him." She opens the door and you enter the room, laughing silently to yourself, you've never once been strong for Philip, you're hopelessly _weak_ for him.

"Phil?" You say softly as approach the bed, he's asleep, his skin so pale and thin looking, his veins almost showing through the colourful tattoos that cover his arms. You pick up one of his hands and sit in the chair beside the bed, watching him sleep. His hand feels so small and frail, like you could crush it by being careless. He's dying, you think, he's dying and there's nothing you can do to stop it. You can pay for this place, you can pay for the best doctors, the most skilled specialists in the country, in the World but he's dying because you can't help him. You don't know _how_ to help him; don't even really know what's wrong in the first place, other than he won't eat. You don't know, you don't understand. You sit cradling his hand for the majority of visiting hours; he wakes up with maybe ten minutes to spare, blinking rapidly and looking horribly confused. "Philip? Phil?" You frown, no response. "_Punkers_?" It's a last ditch attempt to draw his attention, that pet name you gave him, the one you've never used outside of the bedroom. He turns to look at you, his eyes hazy and soft.

"_Colt_?" His voice is the same; you feel a smile stretching your lips. "Why are you here?"

"I'm visiting you." You smile gently and stroke his hand, he frowns, squirms, tugs his hand a little but gives up when you don't let go.

"I'm not sick. Tell me you didn't bring me flowers or a stuffed animal." You didn't and feel ashamed that you'd not thought of it until he mentioned bringing him something. "I was asleep?" He yawns, carefully rubs at his eyes with the hand you're not holding.

"Yeah." You say softly, the clock is telling you it's time to leave. You let go of his hand and stare at the pale skin, little bruises where you'd squeezed his hand too hard are already forming. The sick feeling in your stomach gets stronger; you can't even touch him without hurting him.

"You're going?" He sounds mildly disappointed, you nod at him, resisting the urge to kiss him goodbye.

"Time's up, Philip. I'll be back in two weeks."

The hospital is bleak, truly miserable, filled with hollow eyed child people, the ones who are walking around all seem to be less like people and more like zombies. You're not fat, not by any stretch of the imagination but in this place, you feel huge, the nurse in front of you looks like the Stay Puft Marshmallow man compared to them.

"How is he?" You ask her quietly.

"Philip is _difficult_." You smile slightly, of course he's difficult, he wouldn't be himself if he was just rolling over and letting them do what they wanted.

"Is he getting better?" The woman laughs sadly.

"We're trying." She doesn't say no but you hear it. He isn't getting better, he's difficult because they still haven't convinced him there's something wrong. "Here we are. He might be a little unresponsive."

"You've _drugged _him?" He'll be furious, straightedge, drug free, alcohol free, _better than you_.

"No, he's just _difficult_." She opens the door and ushers you in, closing it behind you.

He looks worse, so much more worse. There's nothing to him anymore, his arms are so thin you're sure you could snap them, the tattoos on them look faded and squashed together, his cheeks are sunken, his hair so fine. You sit beside the bed and feel yourself shaking.

"You're late." His voice is soft and makes the hairs on your arms stand up. "You said three fifteen, it's three thirty."

"I'm sorry, got caught in traffic." You gingerly pick up his hand, handling him like he was a bird, he feels so fragile and delicate. "You been busy?"

"There are fifty-six ceiling tiles in this room. I've seen twelve sparrows, three crows, what might have been a raven and two squirrels since you came last. Why are you here?" You stroke his skin carefully.

"To see you." You say softly.

"I'm not sick, I don't _need _visiting." You look up from staring at his hand as it rests in yours and look at his face. His eyes glare down at you, contempt glimmering in them. "It's my _choice_ to be this way. It takes discipline to be like me." He sighs and you feel him trying to tug his hand free, you release it at the first pull, let him move it to rest over his body. "You wouldn't understand." _Difficult_, always so very _difficult_.

"I know, I know." You sigh, you've been told a thousand times you don't understand and you agree, you _really _don't understand. How can he destroy himself like this? If you weren't certain it would kill him, you'd try shaking some sense into him. "Have you gotten thinner?" You stand and look at the chart at the end of his bed.

"Stabilising." He sneers. "They keep forcing a tube into me. It all rather defeats the purpose." You sigh again.

"And what is the purpose, Philip?" You sit back down and he lets you take his hand again, he's so cold you have to resist the urge to rub his skin to warm him up, the last time you did that, you'd bruised him. It had amused him no end but you'd panicked.

"You-"

"Wouldn't understand? You ever consider trying to explain it to me?" You're not sure how many more times you can come to this grim little room and talk to what is essentially a corpse. He laughs softly.

"I try, I try and I try but you never understand." He sounds so miserably wistful.

"I love you, you know that right?" He turns to look at you, an oddly focussed look in his eyes. "I think I fell in love with you the first time I saw you."

"I was a fucking nerd." He says softly.

"You moved like the wind." You say, staring at the ink on his fingers. "I was fascinated by you and then they made you my tutor and it wasn't fair. You hated me for who I was and all I wanted to do was to get to know you." You laugh softly and carefully raise his fingers to your lips, your first kiss in so long you think grimly. "Chasing the wind, my whole life, that's what I've been doing." He laughs softly and you kiss his knuckles again. You raise your head to look at him; he's staring at you with an odd look in his eyes.

"I know, you know." You frown at him.

"Then why are you doing this to me?" He sighs and moves his hand from yours.

"You don't understand, Scott." You stare at him, you already know you don't understand but what it is that you don't understand is a mystery.

"What? What don't I understand?" You ask him softly, catching his hand again, cradling it as though it was the most precious thing in the World.

"You keep asking and you'll never get it, Colt." You smile softly, Colt a nickname only he uses for you. "You ask why, always why. Can't you just accept that this is the way I am?" You careful stroke his fingers. "It's tiring trying to explain things to people. Just accept things, it's easier."

"Difficult. You're so _difficult_, Punkers." He laughs softly.

"Simple, Colt, painfully simple." You don't notice you're crying until the skeletal fingers of his other hand wipe your tears away. "Painfully simple." He's moved, twisted to his side to stare at you as you cradle his left hand carefully.

"If it's so simple, explain it to me." You whisper softly, raising your eyes to his and staring into them, trying to pick the answers out of his head. He shakes his head slowly, turning over tired him out. You carefully stroke his fingers and let him gather his energy.

"Why am I here?" You glance up at him worried he isn't lucid, that's happened before when his body is so starved that he hallucinates but he's focussed, staring right at you, those sharp green eyes staring at you, making you feel like a teenager watching his blood dripping from his split lip all over again.

"Because you're sick?" You ask him softly.

"I'm not sick." He says his voice a sharp little hiss.

"Because you won't eat, then?" You aren't sure what he wants you to say to him, his expression tells you _that_ was the wrong answer.

"I'm not hungry." You could point out that the trembling of his limbs, the soft downy hairs on his skin argues against him not being hungry, his body is _starving_.

"You're here because I asked you to be?" He smiles at you and nods slightly. He's in this hospital because you asked him to, because you couldn't watch him fade away anymore, because you couldn't save him. "You don't want me to save you?" He laughs softly.

"I worry you'll never get it." He's smiling at you, a delicate soft little curve of his lips. You're not sure you ever will get it, what he means is always so bewilderingly _difficult_ to understand. "You always look at me like you want to be my white knight, I don't need it, I don't _need _to be saved."

"Why are you, no, not why." You shake your head, you _always _ask him why he's doing this, why won't he eat, why, why, why and he never answers, time to try something different. "_What_ do you need from me?"

"Look at me." You do as he asks, look at him, how painfully thin he is, how close to the end he is, how you still think he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. "What do you see?"

"I see you?" You aren't sure what he wants you to see. "I see you, Punkers." He sighs softly.

"Liar." You frown at him, you do see him, all you _ever_ see is him.

"I see you. I see everything I love most in the World and I see it fading away from me. I see me losing you and it terrifies me, Punkers. I, I see you and I _always_ want to see you." You rest your forehead against his hand and close your eyes.

This is the last time you're coming here, you decided a week ago, you made a lot of decisions a week ago but this, you can't do this, you can't come and talk the husk of the man you love anymore. After he asked you what you saw when you looked at him, he'd fallen asleep, he tires so easily, that you were surprised that he'd managed to talk to you for so long last time. It's a different nurse who shows you to his room this time.

"How is he?" You ask her, trying to avoid looking at the other patients, you can hear them shuffling like the walking dead and the thought sends shivers down your spine.

"He's been asking for you, Mr Colton." She says softly, her English is slightly accented, something Eastern European but you can't pinpoint it beyond some country that ends in Stan. Her answer isn't helpful, she leads you past his old room, dread settles in your stomach. They've moved him, he worse, he's been asking after you because he's close, even closer. You can feel tears burning in your eyes. You should have pushed to be allowed to come more than once a fortnight, you should have argued to stay with him. Your decision is reversed so quickly at that moment, you're not leaving his side, even if all he does is lie there and stare at the ceiling, if he's going to die you're not letting him die alone, you'll be there, whether he wants you there or not. She stops in front of a door and knocks softly, opens it and you step through it, hear her closing it behind you. The room is bigger but the bed is empty. There's chair turned facing the window but he didn't have the strength to sit up the last time you were here. You can see your own reflection in the glass.

"I like the new hair." His voice, stronger than the last time, still far too wispy and soft but so much closer to how he should sound. You rub your hand over your shaved head and chuckle softly, it wasn't an easy decision, one you'd spent a week agonising over but when you'd made it, Serena and Luke had looked so shocked and happy to have you as a member of the Society. The process was surprisingly painless, it did feel rather like you were leaving Scott Colton, his vices, his worries behind and embracing being Colt, you'd decided that would be the name you took once you joined, his name for you, that would be the name you'd have everyone call you. Your family think you've gone insane for joining, you know your boss does too. You quit your job, told him you were finished with marketing, were going to do something meaningful with your life, he'd told you with a sneer that once you get over your _boyfriend's_ illness, there'll be a job waiting for you. You laughed at him, finally felt free, like you'd found your place in life, only there was something missing, without him there will _always _be something missing from you.

"My ears get cold." You move further into the room. He's sitting in the chair, still looks so thin but better, a tiny little bit better, there's a little more to him at least.

You kneel at his feet and rest your head against his knees, cuddling his legs as gently as you can, still so fragile but stronger, you can feel tears running down your face, his thin hand rests on your shaved head, slowly stroking the stubble there.

"Wear a hat." He says, you laugh softly, you've been wearing one of his, one you found in his room back at the Society building, you've moved in there into his room, sold your stupidly expensive apartment, took everything that you thought would be useful to the Society and auctioned off the rest, put the money into the coffers.

"You're an idiot." You say softly against his knees, his hand pauses in its actions. "You do all of these things to make the World pay attention to you and when it does." You laugh softly. "You look a _little _better."

"I was never _sick_." He snaps but it lacks its usual bite. "I just." He sighs and you glance up at him, his eyes are distant. "I just want to."

"_Fade away_?" You ask softly, he nods and looks curiously guilty, like he's ashamed of his confession. "Even if you fade away, even if the rest of the World can't see you, even if everyone else is blind to you, Punkers, I will _always_ see you." He looks desperately uncomfortable for a moment but then he relaxes, a soft smile on his lips. You stroke his knee and stand to look at his chart, the scribbles are surprisingly encouraging, he's eaten, a little, he can only handle a little but he ate it of his own free will, they didn't have to use drips and tubes. The awful sick feeling you've been carrying around for months abates slightly.

"I was sure I had you, you know." He says softly dragging your attention from the chart, you want to take that little sheet of paper home, frame it, keep it where you can see it, he _ate_. "When you showed up that second time, I knew that I could get you to replace me." You set the chart down and kneel before him again.

"I could _never_ replace you!" You cup his cheeks carefully. "_No one _can replace you_, _Punkers." He smiles wistfully.

"But you could." You shake your head, there's no way you would be able to even function without him, you'd survive for a while but he's what keeps you going, you need the wind to chase. "You said something that stuck with me last time. _Chasing the wind_." You smile slightly and as gently as you can stroke his cheek. "If I'm the wind, I'm not doing a good job of it, just sitting here."

It takes months, so many months for them to deem him ready to come home but when they finally give you his release papers, you feel happier than you ever have in your life. When he walks up to you, still too thin, still too frail but walking under his own power, a smile on his lips, your heart feels fit to burst. It takes you no time and far too long all at once, to wrap him in your arms. You hold him as tightly as you dare, cradling him against you, swearing to never let him go again. He's shaking in your arms. You step back holding him arms length from you.

"You okay?" You ask him, rubbing his shoulders carefully with your thumbs; he looks at you mildly confused.

"It's cold." Shivering, not shaking, it's winter, he's skin and bones, of course, he's cold. You shrug your coat off and wrap it around him, wind your scarf around his neck and hold him close again. "Thanks Colt." His voice is slightly muffled, his face pressed against your neck, his breath warm and soft there.

"It's okay." You kiss his head softly, you wonder absently if he'll let his hair grow out again, he's shaved it off, symbolically letting go of the ties that bind, he'd told you when you asked, or will he keep the buzzed look so he fits in with the rest of the Society. One of the nurses who's showed you to his room in the past, smiles at you and you hold him a little tighter, kiss his head again. Let people stare, let them judge you, you're not letting him go, not loosening your hold even a little. "C'mon, Punkers, let's go home."

* * *

A/N I've agonised over whether to post this or not, it's a difficult subject matter for me and many others. I conducted as much research into the topic as I could and tried to write with as much sensitivity and care as I could. My research had me stumbling across a horrific little concept called _pro-ana_, anorexia is an illness, not a weight loss program and to portray it as such both sickened and saddened me. If you wish to be _thinspired_ by the starving, trade places with them._  
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This work of fiction is by no means an attempt to belittle or misportray the serious and deadly effects of anorexia. If you or anyone you know suffers from this terrible disease, please seek appropriate medical help.

_As this piece is_ **_so_**_ very unlike anything else I've written, I really would appreciate any and all comments, thoughts, insults and contempt. as such __**please**__** review**_.

新年快乐 for the 31st everyone!


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